RUNNING INTO TROUBLE By Steve Orme

The blue-and-white police tape snagged angrily in the early-autumn breeze.

Charlie Roberts reluctantly responded when his sergeant, sounding unusually edgy, called him to the crime scene. The detective chief inspector wanted to spend as much time as possible in the warmth of his office; planning his imminent retirement was much more inviting than routine police work which any of his junior staff could handle.

He fastened his jacket over his increasing waistline as he walked into a headwind. It hinted there was no chance of an Indian summer.

Usually Roberts enjoyed being in this part of the Derbyshire countryside: it was close to home and he'd often walked here with friends on a crisp weekend morning. He could recognise the appeal of undulating fields, disinterested cows and nervous sheep when the sun provided a perfect backdrop. Now, though, the country didn't even come a close second to a centrally heated police station.

He knew the road well. A country lane connecting two remote villages, it was used very infrequently by traffic while walkers and joggers crossed it during a reasonably exacting ramble which started and finished in a pub car park.

"Ayup, what yer got?"

Detective Sergeant Dale Clarke tried to be as matter-of-fact as possible. But he knew how Roberts would react; he'd seen it far too often over the years that they'd worked together. Roberts would jump down the throat of anyone who didn't come straight to the point, even though an unfortunate officer might not have had sufficient time to explain a complex case.

"Well, boss, woman out jogging, earphones belting out music, a car hits her and splatters her all over the road."

Clarke could almost see the blood filling Roberts' cheeks. "You mean you've got me out here 'cos there's been a hit and run? Couldn't you solve it y'sen?"

Roberts always reverted to his Derbyshire dialect when he was angry or stressed.

"Bit of a problem, though, boss. One of her colleagues rang 999 when she didn't turn up for a breakfast appointment. We told her there'd been an accident, described the victim and we think we've got an ID. Trouble is, if we're right, this other woman reckons the dead one isn't keen on music. Doesn't even own an mp3 player."

***

The city centre police station was aesthetically pleasing but functionally little short of a disaster. A fine example of modern-day design, it was the sort of building an architect would be proud to include in a portfolio of outstanding work.

It was outside the city centre, in the middle of faceless, red brick buildings housing everything from small, independent businesses trying to give the impression of being bigger than they actually were to private health clubs charging extortionate prices because of their location.

However, the planners and police bosses had failed to take into account the fact that it was off public transport routes. Reporting of crime was down – but that was because people found it difficult to get to the police station. If they did manage to find it behind its high fences, the almost impenetrable security put them off.

Roberts despised its clinical, unwelcoming atmosphere. He couldn't understand why the old police station had closed; it was in a perfect location close to shops and businesses but it had been sold to make way for a development of upmarket apartments and a boutique hotel. Three years later the recession meant not a single brick had been laid.

Decades of work had taught him that no matter how much he wanted a result, he couldn't do it without a thorough, determined group of officers working alongside him. So when he gathered his team to discuss this latest case, he delivered a pep talk as much as an analysis of the information they'd gleaned so far.

"All right, listen up. We're investigating the murder of Emma Hanley, 35, a business adviser. Out for an early morning jog, and someone's done her in. Whoever did it has tried to make it look like a hit and run – but they've slipped up.

"Someone's gone to great trouble to convince us this was an accident. She was wearing an mp3 – but it wasn't hers. No DNA on it or fingerprints, apart from Emma's. John: this one's for you. Find out who bought it, when and where. You're great at tracking down stuff like that.

"Post-mortem report says she died from multiple injuries. There were splinters of wood in her lower limbs. That would indicate she was rammed up against a stile as she was trying to make her escape into a field. But someone wanted her dead – and they made a real good job of it.

"It appears she was hit by a white vehicle. It's obviously going to be damaged somewhere at the front. Not necessarily the bonnet, though. Bill: it's right up your street. Check out all the accident repairers and see if anyone's had a rush job on. The dodgy, back-street merchants especially. Somebody could be on a nice little earner for helping to hush this up.

"Helen, you look into Mrs Hanley's background. I want to know who she associates with, where she goes, any deals she's done that aren't kosher. Find me anyone who she's rubbed up the wrong way recently.

"Andy, get me all you can on her husband. I'm sure you can turn up some scandal that'll put him in the frame.

"Martin, take a couple of guys with you and bring her old man in. The husband's always top of the list. Until we get anything else, he's the chief suspect."

A couple of hours later Roberts and Clarke were preparing for their first interview with Matthew Hanley, a 38-year-old man who headed one of the biggest construction companies in the city. Whenever a big new contract was on offer, somehow Hanley's company managed to secure the deal. Yet everything appeared above board.

The two detectives sat opposite Hanley in the main interview room. Neither spoke for several minutes; eye contact, facial movements and body language were vitally important early on as the officers weighed up their prey.

Hanley's bloodshot eyes and pained expression alluded to the fact that he'd had little sleep. His hair was slightly unkempt and he hadn't shaved for a couple of days. Roberts, though, was unsure whether Hanley had adopted the latest fashion or if this was genuinely a man grieving over the death of his wife.

Eventually Roberts spoke to offer condolences to Hanley who continually looked at the floor and uttered the occasional sob.

"I know it's a bit insensitive but we have to ask these questions," said Roberts as cautiously as he could. "Where were you between seven and eight this morning?"

"In bed."

"Can anyone verify that?"

"Yes. I wasn't at home – I was with Martha Pickering."

"What, the Martha Pickering?"

"That's right, Crown Court judge Martha Pickering."

***

Hanley explained how his marriage hit problems when he discovered his wife had been having an affair with a businessman she'd met at a Chamber of Commerce dinner. Hanley would have thrown her out if he hadn't met Judge Pickering at a civic reception. He was delighted to have pulled someone of her standing; she shared his desire for some excitement to help her wind down from her stressful job.

Reluctantly Roberts told Hanley he was free to leave, although the inspector gave an assurance that his officers would contact the judge to confirm Hanley's movements that morning.

"How clever is that?" said Clarke. "The perfect alibi. You can't get much better than that."

"I'm not so sure," Roberts replied. "You know how sometimes you have to follow your instinct? Something doesn't add up here. There was nothing to stop Hanley masterminding the whole thing and getting one of his cronies to do his dirty work for him. Let's see if the others have made any progress."

"Boss, I've just got to nip out. Ongoing problems with my car. I'll be back before you realise it."

"Clarkey, I don't know why you don't get yourself a new motor. It'd be far less hassle."

"What, with a wife and three kids to support? I can't afford a new car on a copper's salary. Back in a bit."

The incident room throbbed with activity. A major new case with its mysterious undertones galvanised everyone into action.

"John, got anything on the mp3?"

"Sold by one of the big electrical retailers. The buyer paid cash. None of the staff can remember who bought it."

Roberts huffed. "Bill, anything from the garages?"

"Not yet, boss. Working through them as fast as I can."

"Helen, what do we know about Mrs Hanley?"

"Well, boss, it seems she was a right little goer. She wasn't just having an affair with the bloke from the Chamber of Commerce, she was putting it about quite a bit. We've found at least three others she'd been with – and from what we gather, she dumped all of them."

"Great work, Helen. Find out if any of those fellas wanted their revenge on Mrs H. But let's keep the pressure up on her husband too. His alibi might be watertight but he could have wanted her out of the way. Then he could make things more permanent with the judge."

***

Clarke drove relatively quickly through the busy streets; the completion of the inner ring road 50 years after it was first mooted had resulted in a smooth, jam-free ride across the city.

He came to a cosmopolitan suburb which still featured businesses run by the families of Asians who had made the city their home a generation ago. But now they were in the minority, the run-down shops with their decrepit facades just as likely to be occupied by eastern Europeans.

Clarke wound down the window, taking in the aroma wafting from the food outlets, trying to identify the various smells. He heard different nationalities chatting away, young men shouting at one another and trying to assert their authority in a non-threatening way. He felt strangely inadequate not being able to understand a word they were saying.

Mechanically his car functioned perfectly well, despite having 150,000 miles on the clock. But a minor shunt when Clarke's mind was on hitting a police force target for catching offenders rather than missing a pillar in a car park meant the front of his vehicle was on the borderline for roadworthiness.

Mick Redfern had been running his repair business for nearly 20 years. Clarke had come across him during a routine inquiry, his down-to-earth approach and forthrightness marking him out from the usual back-street, botch-up tradesman. He wasn't averse to the occasional shady deal to make him a little extra money - but he also knew there were times when he had to tip the police off when certain offers were put to him. Now half the staff at the police station gave Redfern their custom.

"How's business?" asked Clarke, more out of politeness than any real desire to know whether Redfern was gainfully employed.

"Busy. People always want jobs doing straightaway. Forget when their MoT's due. Have a prang and need it repairing before the wife finds out – you know how it is."

Clarke usually enjoyed Redfern's company; they'd occasionally met after work for a drink and found they shared interests including tenpin bowling and fishing. But now Clarke was anxious to get back to the office before his boss made him pay for his unenforced absence. Redfern beckoned him to stay.

"Take this morning, for instance. Had a bloke in from MHH Construction. A few months ago they said they'd put all their jobs my way. It's worth a fair bit. But it means sometimes I have to drop everything to keep them happy.

"This bloke, though, he'd have a job to finish a two-piece jigsaw puzzle. Wanted a really quick repair job on one of the firm's fleet cars. A white one. All the front end dented in. Paid me very well, in cash. But he told me to get rid of the damaged bits so nobody could trace them.

"Well, I didn't want to ask any questions – just took the money and got on with it. Then I remembered yours is the same make of car. So I thought I'd hang on to the bonnet. It's only got a bit of a dent and I can soon knock that out. Give it a respray and your car will look as good as new. Any use to you?"